


What Happened Yesterday

by Zeffy



Category: Homeland
Genre: Don't drink (that much), Don't forget your pants, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Lockhart doesn't bring lasagna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8743261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeffy/pseuds/Zeffy
Summary: Advent calendar story for Dec 4First she opens one eye. Bright sunlight, shining through the window, makes her wince and close it again, and rudely forces her to feel an awful headache. Last night, vodka straight from the bottle, drunken self-pity, morning is the time to pay for that. She’s still not fully conscious, half-asleep half-awake, drifting in between, but something in the picture doesn't fit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrangipaniFlower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/gifts).



> Here I use one of my prompts (№33) from our [Big prompt list](http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/125637.html) and also the secret prompt given by Laure - huge thanks to her for the idea;) 
> 
> Also, thanks so much to Lemonade for editing!

First she opens one eye. Bright sunlight, shining through the window, makes her wince and close it again, and rudely forces her to feel an awful headache. Last night, vodka straight from the bottle, drunken self-pity, morning is the time to pay for that. She’s still not fully conscious, half-asleep half-awake, drifting in between, but something in the picture doesn't fit. First, it's not exactly the pillow she's lying on, and though she doesn't remember how the night ended, she has that feeling… also supported by a lack of underwear… that, yeah. She doesn't have the guts to have a look at her company yet, maybe if she closes her eyes it all would go away… no it wouldn't. The embassy is not that big… Shit she feels sick both because of hangover and a terrible perspective of who it might be and suddenly it's urgent to check now and run away, to wash it away in the shower and to dive into her own empty and cool bed, sleep twelve hours straight to erase this shame from her memory along with the headache. She raises her head from his chest… ah, it's Quinn. Her nausea is gone and her eyelids are suddenly heavy, her head is so damn heavy and the warmth and the measured sound of his breath is better than a sedative. She can't get out of the bed, not now. She snuggles beside him and falls asleep again. 

First there is a good feeling inside, as if he woke up from a pleasant dream and reality didn't intervene yet. Then it's the warm pressure and tickling sensation of her breath on his chest. And her sweet smell, and her hair touching his cheek, and his hands on her smooth skin. It can't be real. Too good to be true. He can't resist prolonging his happy dream, holding onto it, staying there just a bit more to preserve it in his memory. Fuck reality. 

When Carrie wakes up again, she realizes she's at Quinn’s apartment and she has no idea how it has happened. She scarcely remembers that she was going to find more alcohol, after emptying her bottle. Well, probably hers and Quinn’s paths crossed somewhere when she was solving this quest. She watches him sleeping, and he's hot as fuck and apparently they did it. She wouldn't mind doing it again, but what if he freaks out? 

Things were… complicated between them, complicated being a metaphor for total mess. Sometimes she was sure he hated her, sometimes she hated him. They both drove each other crazy, not in a good way, and this annoyance was present in almost every interaction they had recently.

But now it's gone. Funny, somehow the night she doesn't remember washed it all away. She takes a deep breath. It feels good, not to be mad anymore. 

She doubts though that the night did the same trick to him. Maybe he wouldn't be happy to see her when he wakes up, but something stops her from leaving. Curiosity, maybe? She wants to know, doesn't she? She gets up silently, picks up her underwear from the floor and walks towards the kitchen, grabbing his t-shirt and putting it on on the way, telling herself she's staying because she doesn't have coffee at her place. 

Next thing he knows is that it is late morning and he's alone in his bed. It takes him couple of minutes to recall the events of last night. Alcohol was involved, Carrie was involved… 

Holy shit, they did it. 

And he freaks out. Almost. Somehow he knows she's still here,  
he smells coffee and hears sounds coming from the kitchen, but, while he's asking himself all those questions, like - what to do now? Should they talk? Should they drink their coffee and pretend that nothing happened?  
\- he hears someone banging on the door. Really loud, really angry. 

“Quinn, get up and open the fucking door!”

Lockhart. 

Quinn gets up, quickly putting his pj bottoms, can't find the t-shirt, fuck it, hurries to the door- because otherwise Lockhart will just break it open.

“What?”

“Is Mathison here?” 

He pushes Quinn aside, opens the door wider, sees Carrie, not very dressed.

“Damn. I should have guessed. Of course.”

He waves his hands theatrically. He stares at Carrie. She tries not to look confused, “the fuck” expression is all over her face.

“You are wearing one pair of pajamas for the two of you. Sweet. Couldn't you take you phone with you, Carrie, while fucking around?”

“What's the matter?”

“I was looking for you for hours, but your goddamn phone is switched off and you are nowhere to be found.”

“Well I'm here”

“Yes I can see that!!!” 

He looks closely at her through his glasses, obviously trying to make her feel uncomfortable, but he can't master a threatening look – he is too red and too tousled and breathing heavily and his white hair reminds Carrie of a dandelion. He’s so annoyed he can't get to the point of his visit, like his duty was only to find Carrie and yell at her.

“What's going on?” Quinn interferes.

“Yeah right. Mathison, get your pants on and let's go. Something is happening, we need you now in the ops room. Now!”

He goes to the door, but stops in his tracks to add:

“I’m waiting outside. You have thirty seconds.”

He almost closes the door, but then peeps in again.

“I knew it! I mean, the two of you.”

Carrie lets out a sigh, running her hand through her hair. 

At that moment Lockhart shouts through the door, “Quinn, don't relax in there, get dressed and join the party in 15.”

Carrie hurries to the bedroom to get dressed. At least they are spared from awkwardness, she thinks.

“Um, Carrie…”

“Yeah?”

“You don't have pants here.”

“What? How… Ok, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Here, take mine.”

While she puts on his sport pants, he hands her her running shoes.

“Underwear and running shoes. Do I want to know where you met me yesterday in this outfit?”

He just chuckles.

So she leaves, following Lockhart, and Quinn hears him start complaining again about the things he had to undertake to find her.

He has 15 minutes to take a shower and get dressed, there's not much time to think and it's not the right moment anyway, but, being back to reality that’s suddenly crushing in on him, on both of them, he curses himself for being drunk and in need of connection yesterday, and for being unable to resist. He knows exactly why it was an awful idea to let his yearning take control over him: once you have a tiny piece of something you wanted so badly, your want doesn't lessen. It gets worse. It gets stronger. It eats you up and before you know, you're fucked. 

Ten minutes later he's at the ops room, where Carrie is bossing everyone around already. She's good, as usual, and people take her seriously despite her just out of bed look. Out of his bed. Of course those guys will go wild later, having a glass of beer in the evening, gossiping about their boss's inappropriate behavior. Oh they will be dying to know if it was him. They are looking at him right now, trying to catch any hint, any detail they could use as proof, but he's too good at keeping his expression neutral, and he's not going to help them. 

But honestly, every time he looks at her, he’s all messed up. She is wearing his clothes and he can't get the picture of what's beneath them out of his mind. He’s stuck with this vision of her smooth skin and he has to blink to force it off, but then he finds himself musing about gently brushing her hair from her neck and pressing his lips to the spot just below the hairline and breathing her in. Which he has to stop, because there's some serious shit going on.

They've tracked down Haqquani’s patrol. All high ranked guys on top of the food chain, together in a car in a remote territory, which makes them an easy target. And right now, there’s a choice – kill them (a lot of trouble for Haqquani, he’d have to lie low for months to fix the breach, plus the CIA will pat their backs for doing a good job) or try to follow the bad guys and get to their boss (high stakes, no guarantees). 

Carrie is right in the middle of it, persuading Lockhart to go after villain number one (of course, it's Carrie, what else to expect), she's getting agitated, and she's yelling and it's escalating because every minute the risk of losing the car increases, and Lockhart is yelling back because who is she to decide, ah right the station chief, and he is the fucking director of the fucking CIA. 

So they bomb. Carrie is outraged.  
They go to the ambassador, they discuss. They yell. Then they discuss again. It’s tiring. But the decision is made, the deed is done, and so…

Carrie doesn't even look at him. Throughout the whole encounter she acts like he is not there, and now as it has come to an end she's unfocused, angry and restless, pacing around aimlessly, trying to calm down. He grabs her shoulder and squeezes, but she's not really there, for a moment she looks him in the eye but she shakes it off and goes away to her apartment. At least, he knows now.

In twenty minutes she's back - they both are back – at the ops room to coordinate their further actions. They wait for the reaction from the other side, activity of any kind, that is unlikely to happen, those terrorists are not stupid, aren they, they know it's time to sit tight, but things happen, people make mistakes, and luck can be on their side. 

Carrie apparently used her break to shower and change, and she's even more distant. She looks like nothing happened. He can't help it, he keeps thinking. He doesn't want to pretend. He starts considering quitting. 

Two hours later, Carrie feels like shit. She missed taking her meds this morning, but she did it later during the day, and it doesn't feel right. She's dizzy and sick and she can't focus and all she wants is to lie down. She suffers through their debates and planning but all her energy and hatred is gone. She can barely register what is happening in the meeting, as soon as they are done with the main part, she excuses herself and exits without further explanation, leaving her colleagues at a loss. 

“What's wrong with her? Sudden wave of hangover sickness?” Lockhart asks, addressing no one specifically.

Quinn hurries after her, realizing that something is wrong. He’s just in time to catch her fall.

When she's awake, she's at the embassy hospital and Quinn is here beside her. We have a breach, he says, somebody messed with your meds, he says. And he's worried. And he holds her hand. 

She's fine, as it turns out. Just needs some rest and new meds. It’s late evening already when they allow her to leave, but she doesn’t feel bad. Of course, Quinn leads her to his apartment, because hers wasbreached, and because she can't be on her own. For safety reasons. He says that they suspect the ambassador’s husband, who was seen lurking around her door last night, without any good reason to do so. They keep an eye on him for now, maybe he'll contact his employers. Such an embarrassment for Martha, her pathetic husband. 

As they are inside, Carrie sits in an armchair, sighs heavily.

“Hey.”

He stands behind the kitchen counter, giving her a worried look.

“I’m okay, really. Just tired. Good thing we found out in time.”

“Tough day, right?”

Instead of answering, she comes over and hugs him, and they stand together, him rubbing her back.

“Should we talk about last night?” she says quietly.

He moves back to look at her.  
“I don't know. Do you want to?”

“Well, I… “- she chuckles- “I don't remember a thing. Will you tell me what happened?”

“Any ideas?”

“Yeah. I’ve got some hints by waking up naked in your bed this morning, but I still hope you’ll clarify.”

“What do you remember?”

“Hmm, last thing was about finding some more booze.”

“And?”

“Wait. Did I come to you to ask for a drink?”

“Not exactly. You broke into my apartment, you weren't going to ask.”

“Yeah. The key, right. I intended to use it while you were sleeping, to see if you had something to drink.”

“Well, I woke up.”

“Of course you did.”

“You weren't exactly quiet. You know, opening the door is not easy when you're drunk.”

“And then?”

“I didn't know it was you..”

“Jeez, did you try to kill me?”

“Not to kill but…”

“What?”

“I knocked you over.”

“Huh. So those bruises on my knees and arms are not for fun sexy reasons.”

“Not all of them.”

She smiles, he takes her bruised forearms in his hands, strokes gently. 

“Where did these come from?”

“You were fighting with me to get into my pants, Carrie.”

“Oh come on! You totally made that up.” 

“No, it's true, I swear. I had to hold you still.”

“But it looks like I got my way.”

“Yeah. You were persuasive.”

“So, I entered, you knocked me over, and then what happened?”

“I understood it was you, tried to explain that you shouldn't have broken into my apartment like that, but you didn't listen.”

“And all that happened while we were on the floor?”

“Well… Yes. In my defense, I was drunk too. Bad day, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“And so you were lecturing me, all the while pressing me to the floor with your body?”

“Um, kind of. Sorry, I was carried away a little.”

“Nice. And what did I do?”

“You were laughing and demanding a drink. And as I was about to get up and go to the kitchen, you didn't want to let me go.”

“So, you are saying it came out of nowhere?”

“Not exactly… while we were lying there… you noticed, well, that I was em… excited to see you.”

“Ah. You were?”

“What can I say. We were both almost naked. You already know you came here in your underwear, don't you?”

“Oh God I forgot that. Did anyone see me?”

“I really hope not.”

“That's embarrassing.”

“No shit.”

“Can you please stop smirking, it's rude.”

“Sure.”

He continues smirking.

She tries not to think about their colleagues who she could have possibly met along the way, she already heard a handful of jokes (Lockhart was really proud of himself) about the new dress-code, introduced by the station chief, she can only imagine how much worse it could get. She decides to go back to business.

“So. I noticed your… sympathy and took it as an invitation to…”

“Yeah. You were not subtle. You started right away palming my ass.”

“Oh wow. I'm fun when I'm drunk!”

“Fun's not the word! I had to restrain you, but you kind of liked it.”

“Yeah?”

“Actually, you liked it very much.”

“Hm. Sounds like me. And you? Did you like it?”

“I’m only human… those dirty words and sounds and, you know, things you did too… It was so hot.”

She’s standing so close, looking him right in the eye.

“Dirty words? What did I say?”

“You were begging me to fuck you.”

“And you obliged,” – she says, making one more tiny step towards him.

“I had to. You didn't leave me any choice.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder, close to her neck, brushes her hair off her face. 

“Quinn?”

“Hm?” He bends his head slightly, so their foreheads almost touch, caressing her neck and cheek with his fingers.

“Do you think you can show me what happened next?”


End file.
